Friday Fiction: King Korm (Part Five)

[The Herald has called for volunteers for Korm’s ‘kingdom.’]

“Me! Oh, me, fir!” A deep, slurring voice boomed out, and the biggest, burliest Morg Korm had ever seen was suddenly plowing his way toward the stage, arms thick as tree trunks shoving his fellows aside like weeds, fat body straining his smock at the seams. His stick looked like a twig in his hand. He stopped next to the platform, which only came up to his neck, and grabbed it with his claws. “Me, Berb fon of Thorel, y’ Majefty!”

“You don’t have to apply to him personally,” the Herald growled. He pointed. “Go over there!”

“Yef, fir, yef, fir!” Berb looked a little sheepish but headed happily to the tables on the right where a sergeant in a red cloak was waiting to take down names.

Korm watched in amazement as there was a general rush to the right as his fellow Third Beards flocked to be enlisted. It seemed that Nast’s endorsement had roused their enthusiasm, and they were eager to find a place under his rule. There was some pushing and shoving in the rush, and he looked with a dawning feeling of incredulous enthusiasm as he observed their excited faces. In the surging heads of black and brown he easily picked out Prull, face lowered, who looked up at him briefly as he passed. Korm nodded at him in recognition before the tow-headed Morg ducked his muzzle and was swept along with the rest.

The recording sergeant raised an arm to the waiting Herald.

“That’s four hundred and fifty!” he called. “Only twenty-two more!”

“Fall back! Fall back!” the Herald commanded. “The tally is nearly full. Fall back! Come on, no pressing! Somebody must be in the other kingdom, you know. Fall back.”

Korm watched as the final cadets were enrolled and the rest were turned away with groans and exclamations of disappointment. He looked over the recruits who would now, improbably, be his responsibility for the next nine months. They seemed like a fine group of people, but something about them nagged at his mind. He couldn’t quite put his claw on it; he was too worried about how he could possibly lead them. And there was a new and puzzled mumbling passing through both the separated groups.

He tore away from studying his people to look out over the remaining party. Not all of them looked as disappointed as those who had been turned away; in fact, there was a block of tough, sleek brutes who stood with arms crossed, looking smugly, almost defiantly, up at the stage. Korm scanned their faces anxiously, wondering what was happening, when suddenly he realized what was wrong. There, standing in their midst, running his claws through his beard with a jovial grin, was Nast.

“I ask you,” the Herald began, “For your second nomination …”

Before he could quite finish, one of the lackeys at the burly Morg’s side raised his hand and bellowed, “I nominate Nast, of the House of Keth!”

The Herald looked taken aback for a moment but regained his composure quickly.

“Very well,” he said. “We have a second King, then! Nast, of the House of Keth, come up.”

Nast ascended the platform solidly to the sound of cheers and once there he turned and raised his arms in triumph, waving his hands at the wrist as if to call for louder plaudits. His followers responded, clapping thunderously in unison and starting to chant “Nast! Nast! Nast!”

The Herald called unsuccessfully for quiet for a few moments, banging his staff angrily on the stage in a useless effort. At last Nast appeared satisfied, and only at his commanding gesture did the noise die down. He cast a careless, masterful glance at Korm, then looked away, smiling.

The Herald snorted irritably.

“If you gentlemen are quite done, you may gather to register here on the left. That means all of you, not just,” – he paused – “your new king’s private cheering section.”

As if in answer a block of about fifty Morgs formed out of the crowd and moved, almost lockstep, to the sergeant waiting on the left. This maneuver on Nast’s part had been obviously rather carefully planned. Korm watched them and a chill went down his spine as he suddenly understood that Nast had very quickly gotten his measure, seen how unsure he was, and chosen him as a weak but plausible opponent. It was a vile, almost cowardly plan, but cunningly put together, and done partly on the fly at that, as he had to select his pawn from the Cadets available. Korm’s beard, the scholarly Morg realized bitterly, was just the added lure to the baited line.

The chill turned to heat as Korm watched Nast’s self-satisfied expression as his supporters were enrolled. It was not enough that he was rich. It was not enough that he was popular. He had every bit of advantage and training a great House could afford him; he would most likely win – he most certainly would win, Korm admitted angrily to himself. But that he thought it necessary to crush a bug like Korm to succeed! That filled him with rage that he dared not show. Only his fingers trembled a little as he clutched his stick, as if they were eager to use it.

The enrollment ended at last (it seemed an eternity to the seething Korm), and a couple of assistants moved the podium to the center of the stage. Korm hazarded a glimpse at the dignitaries behind him as they did so, but one note of the grim patience of Commandant Drim slightly turning his head to answer his gaze made him twist hastily around again. The Herald came forward and took his place behind the podium; Korm was now on his right and Nast on his left, their groups clustered on either side.

“Cadets!” he proclaimed, looking out, perforce, into the middle distance. He seemed to be addressing the empty space between. “You have been duly sorted and enrolled, having chosen your King. Now receive the ensigns of your Kingdoms!”

His assistants came marching up the stairs from behind the podium, carrying two banners hanging heavily from their cross-poles. They marched right up behind Korm and Nast and snapped to attention, bringing the flags up straight and unwavering with military discipline. One was largely brown with black trim, the other mostly black with brown trim.

“Your people, King Korm, will be the Brown-and-Blacks, and yours, King Nast, the Black-and-Browns. Everyone shall be issued uniforms accordingly, and to be out of your proper uniform at any time is a flogging offense.” He leaned forward and looked from side to side. “Just to make it easy for you knuckleheads, look at your King. The one with the brown beard gets the brown uniform with black sleeves, the one with the black beard gets the black uniform with the brown sleeves. You’re lucky this year it worked out that way. Keep this simple rule in mind … if you can … and you won’t get a beating.” He stepped back. “Commandant Drim.”

The grizzled officer came to the fore again.

“All right, you two, you’re Kings now. For your first official act, you’ve got to pick a couple of military aides; they will be, in effect, your lieutenants. Choose them with care. You’re stuck with them like they’re stuck with you. Let’s see how well you do it.” Drim looked over. “King Nast, you may select your men first.”

“That’s not hard,” Nast said promptly. “I pick my old friends Tchoz and Adrik. I know I can rely on their loyalty and strength.”

“Very well. Tchoz and Adrik, step up and receive your Kingdom’s flag.”

Two brawny Morgs, who Korm recognized as never having been very far away from Nast’s side, made their way up and took the banner from the waiting sergeant. They tussled a moment over who would hold the staff, but after a swift annoyed eyeshot from Nast, compromised by each holding it up with one hand. Drim watched them with raised eyebrows until they’d finished, then swung his head gruffly the other way.

“All right. King Korm,” he snapped. “Who do you choose?”

The young Morg flinched. He had been hastily running that question through his mind and had quickly come to the horrified conclusion that he hardly knew anyone at all among those who had followed him. He stood goggling at the Commandant as his brain reeled.

“Well?” Drim demanded, his raspy voice dry.

“I … I … I choose Berb, son of Thorel!” Korm managed to gasp out as the name suddenly came flashing into his head. There was a smattering of laughter at that. With a shout of joy, the lumbering, simple fellow came bursting from the crowd, nearly knocking the other cadets down out of his way, ignoring the steps and clambering up onto the podium in his eagerness.

“Here I be, Majefty!” he bawled through the hooting and clapping. “Ready to ferve!” He grabbed the flag out of the hand of the unresisting assistant and held it high, grinning down on his new leader with a tangle of snaggled teeth. Korm reached up and patted his shoulder cautiously.

“Thank you,” he managed to husk.

Berb looked around, pleased, then saw Nast’s aides snickering in his direction. His eyes went red with anger.

“Quiet, you, or I’ll pound the duft off your hidef!” he thundered. “You iff the enemief now, fo fee if I won’t!” The two froze, eyes wide with fear.

“Easy, Cadet,” Drim commanded evenly. “Save it for the field.” He turned to Korm as the big Morg settled himself down, though not without a black look now and then in the direction of Tchoz and Atrik. The sarcasm was a rime of frost on the Colonel’s tongue. “That’s still only one, your Majesty, though he’s almost big enough for two. Who’s your other man?”

Korm’s brain went totally blank, pinned, as it were, in the assessing gray gimlet of the Colonel’s eyes. Then it was if he had, for an instant, stepped right out of his body. He heard a voice that he knew to be his own, speaking somewhere about a foot behind his skull, as if it came right out of his soul without ever passing through head. He listened with a sort of curious, detached horror as the meaning of the words sank in, as he heard his voice firmly say, “I choose Prull, son of Prinn.”

Dead silence.

“Well?” Drim asked irritably. “Prull, son of Prinn, get up here!”

A murmur began to well up as the realization of what had just happened started to dawn on the young Morgs on both sides. Whispers passed through the two groups, and there were groans and some laughter. Drim’s eyes raked through the ranks suspiciously, squinting in puzzled annoyance at the noise.

“Prull!” he commanded, searching the group on his right. “Where are you?” His gaze snagged on a figure suddenly standing up very straight in the back. Drim focused on it, then went completely still, muzzle frozen in a scowl. It was hard to tell if it was in anger or disbelief.

The pale Morg starting walking down the aisle, looking neither right nor left, but straight at Korm. There were growls and shaking heads as he passed, and not a few eyes covered with despairing claws. Prull climbed onto the platform with careful, resolute steps. He paused and stared at Korm a few seconds, as if questioning his motives, then nodded and took his place behind him next to Berb. The hulking Morg looked at him rather wall-eyed, like a frightened horse, but stood his ground. For a moment the only movement on the stage was Prull’s light wispy beard, blowing in the breeze.

Then Drim drew in a long, loud breath and let out a weary, cynical sigh.

“Very well,” he said gruffly. “That concludes that. You will report to the sergeants to be issued your uniforms and pack, and then you will march out of the city to the training grounds where you will camp for the night. Then, tomorrow, gentlemen … your education will begin in earnest. Mog help us all,” he concluded with a mutter. He raised his voice again. “Dismissed!”

He marched off the stage, followed by the sergeants, who split off to supervise the separate groups. The Herald, the retired General, and Sekk approached each other informally, duty done. Korm heard the old Witness speaking warmly about a celebratory meal as they left the platform together.

Korm didn’t move from his spot, overwhelmed by the speed of the unexpected events. Berb still stood at attention behind him, fidgeting but holding position as if awaiting orders. Prull looked up at him humorously, then down at the transfixed Korm.

“I don’t know whether I should thank you or curse you,” he said wryly. “Thank you for the confidence you apparently have in me or curse you for the trouble you’ve undoubtedly bought us both. But I’m sure you meant well.”

He examined the unmoving Korm, then slapped him heartily on the back. The brown-bearded Morg snapped awake, blinking and shaking his head like a wet mountain goat.

“Now, I don’t know if you’ve started your reign out very well by choosing me as an adviser,” said Prull. He pointed. “But there goes your kingdom. As their leader, I suggest you go follow them.”  

Notes

I suppose I have to confess that Berb son of Thorel is a sort of imaginary portrait of me, Brer son of Elthor, if my enthusiasm and physicality (strength) hadn’t been so often baulked by shyness and restraint, just as Korm is a sort of idealized version of me if I had been more studious and dedicated. And Prull, of course, has all my feelings of alienation and social outsider status and a strong dash of cynicism and fatality. They exist together in an uneasy alliance in my soul.

Berb, of course, is shy one layer of social skin, “mercifully free of the ravages of intelligence.” He thinks with his heart and his gut, and while the mills of his mind can grind exceedingly slow, they usually come to the right conclusion in the end. His size and his strength make him awkward in a world built on a smaller scale. Nothing wrong with him, though he’s usually slow and careful; when he does commit himself to abrupt action, it can be alarming to those who only see him as a bovine oaf.

Prull is of course more cynical and analytical, standoffish and a little bitter over his social stigma.  His ironic observation echoes that attributed to Alexandre Auguste Ledru-Rollin (1848), “There go the people. I must follow them, for I am their leader.” It’s also sometimes given to John Quincy Adams or Mahatma Ghandi.

The names of Nast’s cronies and henchmen, Tchoz and Adrik, are also parodies of people from my schooldays, friends of my old political nemesis. Now fuel for my story machine. So it goes.